The Thin Blue Line
by CharmingNotDarling
Summary: ...the only thing you can be sure of is that Sherlock will find you.


The Thin Blue Line

**A/N: I love Bell. So after reading "A Good Cop" by LaughingGravy I was inspired to write something similar… this is the outcome… As always…A HUGE thank you to the amazing and patient handful of sky! Without her, this (and just about everything else I write) would never make it here… I hope you enjoy:)**_**  
**_

(…)

You wake to pain, fresh and raw, and it skates across your skin and pulses through your blood in a film of oily fear. You can hear nothing but the drumming of your own rapid heartbeat and the drag of air as it enters and exits your lungs. You give in to the panic briefly before the curiosity he's instilled in you bleeds through and finally takes over. 

You rein in your fear and beg your mind to focus. You think of him and all but hear his voice, can recall it so clearly from memory you nearly weep with relief at just the thought of him. Can feel the impatience he would emanate were he here, pressing your clarity forward. Knowing he would demand that you focus, assess your body, your mind, and your surroundings. 

_'Take inventory, Watson, we are nothing but what we are left with in these situations.'_

You take a deep breath and try to do him justice.

The darkness is deep, fathomless, it presses back against every breath you take and it fills your lungs until you're sure you'll drown in it. You close your eyes against the press of claustrophobia. Embrace the lack of light behind your eyes and ignore the unknown depths beyond your skin. 

You try to stand, and when you do you find you're bound, not by tape or rope, but wire, and with every shift, you make the bindings dig a little deeper. You take a deep breath to help fight the press of panic only to flood your senses with the coppery scent of your own blood. The pain takes over as the realization dawns on you. You flex muscles, shift bones, and are relieved to find you're otherwise whole.

The floor is cold beneath you where you're huddled in a corner. The wires that bind your skin are woven through what feels like the bars of a turn of the century radiator. The air is damp and the darkness carries a chill only sub-levels can provide during the press of a New York City summer. You shift your weight and are pretty sure you're dressed in a tank and cotton pants. When you lean just right, your right knee pulls against the fabric of your pants, it's stiff, tight and scratches at your skin. You strive for more. Sift and shove through the dusty wasteland that is your memory. You can almost hear him again. Know he'd be egging you on, begging you to think.

When exhaustion claims you and sleep takes over, the only thing you can be sure of is that Sherlock will find you. 

(…)

When you surfaces, it's to a light so bright you think its warmth rivals that of the sun. You can't open your eyes under the onslaught of fluorescence or halogens. Hear your name repeated time and again. You want to respond- your voice is screaming within the confines of your skull. You have no idea where you are or how long you've been missing; all you do know is that you're beyond desperate to be heard, to be found, and to be saved.

You know it's him. Know he's found you. The lights are still too bright, and you find yourself battling tears laced in nothing more than frustration. The impatience and dehydration don't aid in your determination to keep from diving headfirst into hysterics. You just want out of this cellar and back in your brownstone.

You find your voice finally and when you speak, it's weak and slightly desperate. You try for complete sentences and all you manage is his name. The hand that cups your face belongs to the voice that begs you to remain calm, but they do not belong to _him_.

You can smell Bell's cologne, realize now it was his voice calling you all along. You call for Sherlock again, don't understand why he isn't there. You're desperate for his voice and are instantly terrified that he's lost as well.

"Shhh, Joan, it's okay. He's fine, at the station, doing what he does best. Alfredo is there with him and the Captain."

It's amazing how calm his words alone make you. The pain pales in comparison to the overwhelming knowledge that Sherlock is safe. Bell's hands remain on your skin, almost as if he were trying to push his relief into your system and force out all of your desperation and doubt.

Almost instantly there's an overabundance of chatter and noise around you. The light is still too much for your eyes, so you listen instead of watch Bell give clear, calm directions. You've never really paid much attention to how well he executes this aspect of his job. He's calm and patient, his voice even toned and gentle. He single-handedly represents that thin blue line between chaos and control.

His fingers are feathering the bend of your elbow now and you can feel his body shift and realize he's stepping aside to allow the EMT's the room they need to free you.

"Hang in there, Joan." His voice is close to your ear, hovering like wings at your back. "They'll have you out of here in no time." It's amazing how still his presence keeps you, how he knows how close to stand, when to speak and what to say.

Perhaps it's why it's him who's come to free you. Why Sherlock is still at the precinct, however far away that may be, and not the one with his fingers pressed along the bend of your arm.

You realize, disappointedly, that it's almost a relief that Sherlock isn't here. He's practically incapable of the stillness this moment calls for.

Suddenly, Bell's phone chirps and it startles you, drags you back to the present. He lays a calming hand to your hair before moving to answer the call.

"Bell."

"Talk to me, Bell." Gregson's voice floods the damp and chilly air. Sherlock's voice is pronounced, demanding in the background, spouting something rude and sassy in regards to the wait Bell has forced them to endure. You can picture him now, pacing some small space at the precinct, body vibrating with his usual impatience, his eyes drowning and glazed over with worry.

"We got her, Captain. She's all right. EMT's are working on her now, gonna be outta here in no time."

There's a beat of silence before both men on the other end start to speak. All communication is lost in the struggle to be heard. Gregson swears and then everything is muffled for a moment. When he returns to the phone there's silence in the background again.

"Alfredo is taking Holmes for a much needed breath of fresh air." You can hear the impatience battling the calm in his voice. "They taking her to the hospital?"

The thought of enduring a night in the ER surrounded by the sick and the desperate is enough to force your eyes open. "No," you manage to croak out. "No hospital, I'm fine."

You turn to find his face, to look him in the eye and add some conviction since your voice sounds pathetic and disturbingly small. There's a beat of silence from all involved. You know Bell is exchanging wordless questions with the pair currently working the wires from your skin. Gregson, is as always, the pillar of patience on the other end of the line.

It's the younger of the two EMTs who's brave enough to speak. "You're gonna need some stitches ma'am, and, ah, maybe a tetanus shot. Should have a few tests done just to be sure." You meet his eyes and something in the back of your mind screams at you to recognize him. Perhaps on one of your ER rotations back when the hospital was a safe haven, a place of business, but now the thought of returning there brings your heart to sudden, breathtaking stop.

"She goes, Bell, no arguments. I'll let Sherlock know, he'll meet you there." Your heart starts up again at Gregson's words, adrenaline and exhaustion heavy under your skin. "No. No, Sherlock doesn't go." You meet Bell's eyes and you're well aware yours are defiant, stony and turbulent, like the ocean in the wake of a storm, but you don't care about much of anything now. As long as Sherlock isn't made to sit in that place with drugs at every turn and your injuries on display for him to see, you won't make a show about having to go.

Bell gets it. You can see everything you're thinking painting the planes of his face. He nods his head in understanding and steps away to reconnect the call with Gregson.

You watch him pace the small damp space as he converses softly with the Captain again. While he speaks, he brushes the fingers not holding the phone along the angles of his shield at his belt. You wonder if it's moments like this one, so full of relief and adrenaline, that call to him, feed whatever it is inside of him that anchors him to his shield, to this job, and the brotherhood you know he's so dedicated to. Gregson would never voice his opinion, but you know Bell is a favorite at the station. You know Sherlock holds him in a higher accord than most he's worked with in the past, know he considers him a viable asset in the pursuit of the greater good, and if there's any sentiment of Sherlock's that you cannot rival, it's his personal investment in the greater good.

You're still seated on the floor in the corner of what you can now see is nothing more than a small cellar. Some pre-era building probably abandoned or condemned for demolition. When he lowers the phone from his ear and turns toward you, his eyes find yours again and you instantly know you won't like anything he has to say.

You open your mouth to cut him off and falter when you hear Sherlock's voice. It's faint and far off, but you can hear the stress and desperation underlined by the urgency as he repeatedly calls your name. Bell meets your eyes for a moment, an apology or perhaps pity swimming in his gaze. He turns for the door, makes it across the rickety frame and nearly out of sight before coming face to face with the man in question.

There's a beat of silence, Alfredo's whispered voice, the shuffling of what you know has to be Sherlock's feet and Bell's less than gentle tone.

"Hey, hey, I know you need to see her but, before you do you need to understand something," You can picture them out there, Bell blocking Sherlock's advance and Alfredo laying a hand to his shoulder. Sherlock begins to speak but you lose his words beneath the movements of the younger EMT as the last of the wire has been removed and he begins to wrap your left wrist. He asks if you think you can handle some water, but you make no reply, remain focused on the voices in the hall and all the heat they carry in on the chilly air.

"This isn't about you right now, however hard that might be for you to understand. You need to get it together before you go in there. She needs to be able to look at you and know you can handle this without making her feel like she's done something wrong." Another beat of silence and then Bell continues, "She's hurt and exhausted and all she can focus on is making sure you're okay. The last thing she needs right now is to be worrying about you. Keep it together or I'll drag you out of there myself." More silence, even the pair of EMTs (you remember the younger of the two then, Grayson is his name) seem enthralled with the conversation taking place in almost whispers right outside the door.

Bell speaks again, this time his voice is softer, full of respect and an understanding that you know will drive Sherlock slightly mad, "Look, I know how important she is to you, I just-"

"I assure you Detective, I'm more than capable of keeping it together, as you so eloquently put it. Now step aside." There's a calm to Sherlock's voice you've never heard before and you'd give anything to see his face while he speaks to get a handle on his feelings.

Grayson meets your eye and then steps away. He returns to his bag and pulls a bottle of water from a pocket. As Sherlock enters, Grayson turns to him, hands him the clear plastic bottle and then promptly leaves the room with his ghostly silent partner. Sherlock takes it without looking. His eyes, from the moment he enters the room, find yours and neither of you is willing to let go. Bell hovers in the door way; Alfredo is nothing more than a shadow out in the hall.

He sits before you, mimicking your seated position of crossed legs, and doesn't settle until your knees are bumping. He sets the water down and pulls something from under his arm, and you're touched beyond words when you see it's your red sweater. The one you wore throughout the winter to fight the chill in the brownstone. It's not something you wear every day, but rather something you lean toward when you need comfort. The simple fact that he knows you well enough to make the connection is a little too surreal. He leans in and settles it around your shoulders. His gaze leaves yours as he pays too much attention to removing your hair from beneath the collar and setting the seams to rights along your shoulders. He makes no effort to thread your arms through the sleeves and you're so very grateful.

A man of details, you think as you gingerly reach up to pull the sweater tight around you. He sees the bandages at your wrists and you watch him bury his anger and frustration as he uncaps the water, "Thank you," you manage in a raspy voice accompanied by a genuine smile. He lifts the bottle in salute, eyes sad, smile far from real, and startles you when he cups your face and lifts the water to your lips.

You've never seen him so still, never thought him capable of such gentleness.

"I came to a startling conclusion today, Watson." He doesn't look you in the eye as he speaks, pays too much attention to capping the water and then settling the hem of your sweater along your folded knee. "It would appear, with little room for irony, that the very thing that brings out what's best in me, the person who has brought me to my full potential, kept me strong and sharp, has simultaneously become my greatest weakness."

God, it's amazing how swiftly his sorrow awakens your own. How his anger and doubt shake the adrenaline out of your system and bring your aches and pains to the forefront of feeling. You drop a hand to the fingers still smoothing the hem of your sweater in an attempt to soothe.

You lean in and whisper so Bell doesn't hear, "Not your fault, you know that."

But Bell senses, knows the mood has shifted out of your favor and he's there with Alfredo at his side. Sherlock finds something close to humor in the instant appearance of both men at his back.

"Come along, Watson, your chariot awaits." He lifts himself from his seat on the floor but does not fully rise. Instead he slips an arm behind your knees and the other behind your shoulders.

"I don't need to go," you whisper petulantly in his ear. You know you agreed to it, but that was before he showed up unannounced. You can't possibly need more than six stitches between the two wrists, nothing a few butterfly bandages couldn't handle. But he turns flat, glossy eyes on you and you're helpless even before he speaks.

"Come now, Watson," this time his voice is soft and it's filled with something close to desperation. He closes his eyes and rests his forehead to your cheek. "I cannot stand to see you in pain."

You find yourself unable to speak at his overwhelming show of emotion, so you muster up the strength to nod your head, his scruff rubbing against the rise of your cheekbone.

He lifts you off the floor, movements measured and careful, touch barely-there and tender, and carries you out to the street and the ever-patient Grayson.


End file.
